


Seconds

by Shachaai



Series: APH Olympics [5]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M, Rio 2016 Summer Olympics, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 17:40:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20012233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: The British team are currently second in the Olympics medals table and have been for a few days. These are dizzy and unusual heights - and England wants tocelebrate.





	Seconds

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from my tumblr. This was originally written at the time of the 2016 Olympics in Brazil.

Portugal has long since finished by the time England begins nearing his peak, keeping the pace of his hips behind the other a steady, relentless rock that has Portugal clawing at the sheets beneath them both, long deep furrows in the cloth where his nails have scratched through the cotton to the mattress below. He’s a gorgeous wreck, Portugal; somewhere after his second orgasm he gave up on supporting his own body-weight entirely, and his face has been planted down and moaning into his pillow ever since. When England drives in deeply, leans over Portugal’s back to tongue the sweat sliding up the tanned spine and bite kisses into the hot skin of Portugal’s nape, Portugal’s voice cracks on a hoarse, overstimulated _groan_ , his knees slipping open wide, wider, for England to fuck him even more deeply, to easily reach around his waist and pump his already slickly-coated cock until he is thick and dripping urgently in England’s hand again, his bed and belly already painted in sticky white.

England moans at the heat of it, teeth sharp and his fingers clutching so tightly at Portugal’s hips and arse bruises blossom like foxgloves on tan skin. He ruts Portugal shamelessly as he jerks and spills for the first time that afternoon, slipping out immediately afterwards despite Portugal’s frustrated groan and removing his condom to dispose of in a tied-up knot in the bin he’d brought over to the bed.

(“Bins aren’t sexy,” Portugal had muttered at the time, already all red mouth and mussed-up hair, grumpy because England had left him sprawled out on the mattress with his shirt only half-undone to fetch the bin. And lubrication.

“Neither is cleaning up a used condom from the floor,” England had told him smartly, and then stepped up onto the bed and over his lover’s reclining form, neatly as a cat, so he could straddle Portugal’s waist on the way down and let the pouty one go back to shamelessly grinding their clothed crotches together and kissing like they’d both just discovered puberty.)

“Hush, you,” England says, and pushes at Portugal’s side until Portugal goes with it, letting his hip hit the mattress and the rest of his body roll until he’s sprawled out on his back.

Portugal’s arm is flung and his dark loose curls spread out in tangles on the pillow, his front covered in his own come and his chest flushed with his panting breaths. “Hush _yourself_ ,” he mutters somewhat darkly, clearly trying to narrow his eyes at England and sulk, but mostly only achieves fluttering eyelashes and a desperate arch up against England when England slides on top of him, rubbing his hot sticky cock shamelessly up against England’s bare belly and spreading his mess over both their stomachs.

England lets him indulge himself for a few moments before he lays down on top of Portugal, one hand balanced on Portugal’s chest and a smiling _moody_ murmured against Portugal’s mouth. Portugal continues to move under him urgently, rocking like a boat in a storm, dragging England’s lip between his teeth until England stops tormenting him with chaste brushing kisses and slides deeper, fucks Portugal’s mouth with his tongue, pets Portugal’s hair with fingertips and pushes his hips back hard against the wet smear of Portugal’s cock trapped between them.

When Portugal gasps for breath England slides his mouth over Portugal’s jaw, laves more kisses down Portugal’s throat, teeth against the taut lines. He tongues Portugal’s clavicle, noses aside sweaty curls and murmurs quiet praises as Portugal pants above him, managing to slip his hand around England’s body to dig his nails into the curve of England’s arse and grip him in place. England slides his mouth lower in retaliation, scratching with his teeth over the ridges of old scars near Portugal’s heart until Portugal’s chest shudders with tired laughter.

“Are you planning to make me come once for every one of your team’s ridiculous amount of medals?”

England laughs as well at that, nuzzling affectionately at Portugal’s chest and feeling the prickle of hair against his cheek. “Now _there’s_ an idea…” They could be there all day, though they might (definitely) run out of condoms. And snacks in Portugal’s Olympic apartment. England kisses over Portugal’s heart again, slow and lazy and looking up under his lashes at Portugal watching him with dark, liquid eyes from under the mess of his hair. “Mm, I think you’ll have to be satisfied with just helping me match the golds. We wouldn’t want to wear you out, after all.”

“Oh, of _course_ not.” Portugal’s fingers flex, press imprints into England’s back and buttocks, Portugal shivering when England shifts atop him, taking his warmth south with his kisses, his tongue tracing a slick line down over Portugal’s stomach and the sticky and somewhat bitter mess there. “You know, meu amor, when you asked if I had any plans for the rest of the day…” England laps languidly at the top of Portugal’s treasure trail as nails scratch their way up over his shoulder-blades, feeling the muscles in his lover’s abdomen jump under his mouth as he presses a kiss to Portugal’s bellybutton and does his best to ignore the drying come he can feel on the end of his nose. “I-”

Portugal’s words dissolve into a hoarse inarticulate _yell_ when England wraps his palm around Portugal’s cock again, pumping it lazily and thumbing the dribbling head.

“Mm?” England asks lightly, twisting his wrist and smiling somewhat wickedly when Portugal’s chest _heaves_ , ragged breaths and straining limbs across the mattress. England rubs his hand soothingly over the trembling of Portugal’s thigh. Beautiful.

 _“Meu Deus,”_ Portugal gasps, and England snorts and ducks his head to begin laying wet kisses down Portugal’s abdomen, _mmm_ ing in pleasure at the nails beginning to rake slow and sharp up the back of his neck, through the tousled wreck sex has made of his hair, “you were being very literal.”

England is going to take that as a compliment, grinning when Portugal reaches out with his other hand to wipe away the speck of white decorating the end of his nose, cupping his cheek afterwards. He can’t stop smiling now, his jaw aching with it, turning his nose and his kisses into the warm curve of Portugal’s palm. Something soft and secret and glowing gold, like nuzzling a lover’s neck beneath the bedsheets in the early hours of a sunny morning. “ _Never_ let it be said that I don’t know how to celebrate.”


End file.
